Horn Dog
by DakotaRattlecat
Summary: The Dragonborn and Vilkas have just finished clearing out a fort in the wilderness. Two warriors with that after-battle high who are just glad to make it out alive…together. M/M slash, One shot.


**Alright ladies and gentlemen, this is the first mature fanfic I've ever written. I made the serious mistake of not bringing my xbox home with me so I've been unable to play Skyrim all week, so I finished this little lovely I started a while ago. This is just a quick scene between my male wood elf dragonborn and his husband Vilkas after they just finished clearing out a fort. Enjoy the lemony goodness cause I'm so going to hell for this.**

Vilkas straightened, pulling his sword free of the last of the bandits. He turned to see his shield-brother plucking arrows from the foreheads of several downed enemies like they were leeks from a garden. They had certainly had a hell of a time clearing out the old fortress, but between his two-handed techniques and the wood elf's sharp aim, they had come out of it not too worse for the wear. Vilkas paused to wipe the blood from his cheek as he observed the smaller man pick through a large chest near the wall.

The first time he'd seen the bosmer, he had trouble believing that such a wisp thin creature could be much of a danger, let alone a dragonslayer. However when he had been ordered to test the new-blood in the training area, he immediately knew that this one was different.

The elf was fast, far faster than any opponent he'd faced before, and when he finally managed to shield-bash the man, he used his own momentum to roll to his feet and attack before Vilkas expected. It was a good fight, he knew this recruit would go farther than the others, but that didn't mean that he didn't need to be tested further. But something happened during their training that sparked the nord's interest, the moment after the elf had been knocked down, his red-rimmed, yellow eyes had all but glowed with rage. It had sent thrills down the larger man's spine, to see the raw emotion in those predatory eyes that until then had been calm and collected. Ever since then, Vilkas had purposely antagonized the elf just to see that brief flicker of passion those eyes. Oddly enough, the dragonborn continued to seek him out for help in his quests, despite his endless goading. They had become an odd sort of pair, most would call them rivals, but they both new that somewhere along the road they had become friends.

Vilkas wasn't really sure when their friendship had become something more, but he didn't question it. As was with most Skyrim couples, their courtship (if you could even call it that) had been short, their engagement even shorter. The dark haired nord still wasn't entirely sure how he'd been lucky enough to catch the other man's eye, let alone marry him.

He watched fondly, as the willowy elven male approached him to look him over for wounds. His intense, cat-like eyes narrowed as he inspected a gash on Vilkas' shoulder, the only cue on his clean-shaven, feminine face that he didn't like what he saw. Vilkas couldn't help but be mildly amused as he was forced to bend slightly so the elf could smear some sort of foul smelling concoction on the wound. The pain immediately vanished, but his worried husband just _had_ to make sure that he had it all covered, making him an easy target.

A muscular arm slipped around his waist, pulling him sharply against the armored chest before him. The elf steadied himself as he felt a stubble rough cheek brush past his jaw as a pair of lips pressed hungrily into his neck, his own long, snowy hair obstructed his husband's face from view. "Rorik," the nord growled softly, urging the elf backward into a small bed chamber connected to the main room. Façade of calm already beginning to slip, he shivered in response to his name, only Vilkas was allowed to call him by name. Rorik groaned and tilted his head back to allow him better access.

Having neared the bed, Vilkas smirked and moved up to slide his tongue over a long, pointed ear. The effect was as immediate as the healing ointment. Rorik hissed and arched forward, sinking his teeth into the juncture of his neck and shoulder. The dark haired nord groaned as the feral display and pain sent a shock of arousal straight to his groin. Fingers suddenly urgent, both men attacked the other's armor until the floor was littered with steel and leather. They collapsed onto the bed, mouths clashing and tongues intertwining, both men relishing the taste of blood and sweat.

Supporting himself with one arm, Vilkas reached down and gathered both of their aching lengths into his hand, squeezing them together and pumping roughly. Rorik sucked air through his teeth and dug his nails into his husband's shoulders as the nord's hot mouth once again descended upon his neck. "Dammit, Vilkas," he groaned, as their bodies rubbed against one another, voice husky from the stimulation, "won't…won't last…need you!" The last part of the phrase came out as more of a pleading whimper than a demand, and Vilkas smirked against his skin. Releasing the overheated elf, he helped Rorik flip over onto his hands and knees, nudging his legs apart as he leaned over the dragonborn and placed kissed across strong shoulder-blades. His fingers sought out old scars, tracing them reverently with one hand as the other slid down and pressed two fingers inside the smaller elf's entrance. They made love often enough that such preparation wasn't as needed as it used to be, but Vilkas always took the precaution anyways and Rorik was thankful for it considering how well endowed the other male was. By the time he was finished preparing his lover, the elf was a panting, sweaty mess beneath him. Vilkas bent over him, chest to back, planting a single soft kiss under one pointed ear, "Ready for me, love?" his deep voice sending chills down the other's spine. Rorik nodded vigorously and braced himself.

Twin groans rumbled out into the room as Vilkas slowly entered the elf. The dragonborn's hands fisted in the furs beneath them as the familiar burn of being stretched overtook him. The nord paused once he was buried to the hilt in his lover, allowing the smaller man to adjust to his size, one hand secured a thin hip while the other quickly sought out his husband's, who released the blanket to intertwine their fingers. After a moment, Rorik shifted slightly and managed to growl a single word, "_Move_."

Vilkas pulled halfway out and slammed back in, giving a low groan as his husband's walls provided him with a delicious friction and pressure. Rorik quickly began to buck in time to his thrusts, and as Vilkas changed the angle a bit the elf cried out, his thick length pressing against the other male's sweet spot. Their even rhythm soon grew more desperate and erratic as heat coiled at the base of their spines. Sensing his lover's imminent release, Vilkas let go of the pale hip and roughly stroked the elf's length. It was too much. Rorik came with a cry, throwing his head back in ecstasy as his seed coated the furs beneath them. Vilkas was quick to follow as the elf's walls clamped down on him. He leaned over his lover, gave a few more frantic thrusts, and came hard, biting down on the pale shoulder before him.

The pair immediately collapsed into a sweat, sticky pile on the cot, too tired to move, let alone clean themselves up. After a minute or two of catching his breath, Rorik turned to face his husband, causing Vilkas to slip from him. They shared a gentle kiss and the nord softly gathered him in his arms.

The dragonborn smirked, "….Horn dog."

Vilkas chuckled.


End file.
